In the Long Run

I was a little unsure as I approached the receptionist. “I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” I ventured. “I’m here for…”

The older woman looked bored as she cut me off curtly. “Name?” I told her and she motioned me through the door on my left and into the mammogram waiting area.

Yes, now I remembered this room from last year. Obviously it was designed to appeal to women. There were flower arrangements on the coffee table and endtables, and paintings on the walls. The modern sofas were comfortable, and covered in a rich purple brocade. Two knitted throws, one purple and one a pleasantly contrasting hunter green, were casually draped across one end and arm of each sofa, as though inviting a woman to snuggle up with the pillows on the couch, feet tucked beneath her, and the afghan tucked around her. A flat screen TV on the wall was tuned with low volume to The Food Channel, on which a perky chef chit-chatted with her equally perky co-host. The lamps on the endtables provided relaxing, subdued lighting. Everything in the room seemed to be designed to provide for the comfort of the clients, and to ease any nervousness or anxiety.

I crossed the room to an endtable which held a decorative candy dish full of breath mints and festive candy canes. I slipped a spearmint lozenge in my mouth, settled in on the couch, and closed my eyes. I could almost fall asleep, I mused.

My reverie abruptly ended as the door flew open, and a technician strode past me across the room and opened the door leading to the clinical area. “Right through here,” she ordered. No cordial greeting? No introductions? She was cold and brusque in contrast to the warmth of the waiting room.

She pointed to a changing area. Her blunt instructions were precise, but delivered in a short, edgy manner. I sensed that any dawdling would be frowned upon, so I hurriedly changed into the medical gown. I didn’t actually hear her outside my changing cubicle, but I imagined she was there tapping her foot, and checking her watch every 10 seconds.

Once we were in the X-ray room, it was very plain that though she was a much smaller and younger woman, she was definitely in charge. I realized I had better respond to her demands quickly or….or….else. I started to sweat a little. I knew that the machine’s controls were foot-operated. It hit me that this foot-tapping, impatient woman had the capability to really hurt me.

Shaken though I was, I reacted swiftly to her commands which I considered veiled ultimatums. When she said “Right arm here”, I moved it there immediately. When she said, “Relax your shoulder,” I tried, as best as I could, to relax. When she said, “Hold your breath,” I almost muttered, “I’m already holding it—in fear and trepidation of you!”

When the procedure was done, she told me to wait right there for a few minutes, and she darted out the door. I exhaled deeply. Mind you, I’ve had mammograms before, and it wasn’t the X-ray itself that had worried me. No, I had been nervous that the terse and almost churlish manner of the technician could result in a far less than gentle and benign experience for me.

She did not look happy when she came back in the X-ray room five minutes later. “We have to do the right side over again,” she said. I grimaced. Did I just imagine a glint of sadistic satisfaction in her eye? I prayed that I had not done something to incur her wrath, and mutely and meekly moved back to the machine.

When the ordeal was over, I walked through the front office as the receptionist totally ignored me. I was surprised to note that the entire visit had lasted a mere 19 minutes, including my waiting time and dressing time. The technician’s abrupt manner suddenly became a positive thing in my mind. She had left me with time to go home and curl up on my own couch with my own afghan. No hurry, no more worry.

Posted by Cyppy at 7:56 PM